Walking through the doors a wee bit early, I couldn't help but notice that the place was bit a crowded. Strike that. VERY crowded. It made the subway at rush hour look veritably roomy.

The perky hostess noted that I'd arrived and asked me to alert her once Kristin joined. At 8:30 sharp I had finally made my way through the five-deep bar to snag a glass of wine when Kristin sashayed in. We immediately informed the hostess.

"It'll just be 5 - 10 minutes," she reported.

It was a lie.

Forty minutes later the joint didn't look any less packed and we seemed no closer to getting a table. Finally the hostess looked our way. Our table was ready. But, alas, it was a corner table, slammed right next to the bar and surrounded by a throng of thirsty and hungry patrons.

Kristin lost it, informing the hostess that the table was an insult - especially after waiting this long past our reservation.

Expecting the worst, we were surprisingly greeted by the best.

The hostess agreed with our take on the table, promised us the next one in the dining room proper and offered us two flutes of champagne for our trouble.

Hmmm...Maybe the evening would turn out well after all.

And so it did.

Our French brasserie dinner was delightful - from the bottle of Rasteau Cuvee Prestige Domaine la Soumade to the Frisee aux Lardons and the Steak Tartar with Frites to the Profiterole topped with Dark Chocolate Sauce.

The waiter was pretty tasty too. (I was particularly charmed when he deftly poured the hot Chocolate Sauce into a heart-shape on our dessert plate.)

We wrapped up the meal with glasses of Sauternes and Armangac, and a strong desire to keep the evening going.

One more stop was required.

We bundled up, faced the freezing night and headed over to Eleven Madison Park where we enjoyed the pleasure known as a nightcap. A couple rounds of Jack Roses later, the evening was fully capped.

A cab was hailed, hugs exchanged and the promise of a Steak Tartar-themed dinner party made.

And, somehow the evening air didn't feel quite as chilly as earlier that night.

Joy ushered me up a discreet brownstone's stoop and opened a non-descript door to reveal a watering hole that instantly won my heart - Bar Centrale. Pictured above with Ms. Dowd perched on one of their tiger print bar stools, it's a throwback to the dreamy cocktail hot spots once featured in vintage films of yesteryear.

In other words - It was perfect for theater insiders in-the-know, the kind than can analyze Sondheim until dawn. And, we felt very in-the-know when we sidled up to the bar next to two of the stars of The Drowsy Chaperone.

I like being in the know. But I really like being in the know with great theater, adult content and a stiff drink in hand.

January 15, 2007

It might not be as sad as bidding adieu to my two old pots - but looks like there are four others to say good-bye to. Not pots, mind you. Not saute pans either. I'm talkin' about four Brooklyn Heights restaurants:

Over the past year Palmira's had disintegrated into a tired, sad, red-gravy joint hopelessly attempting to grab patrons with the promise of wireless Internet and early bird specials.

The lure of Turkish cuisine aside, Kapadokya just never "did it" for me.

And, Mike's? We hardly knew you. In fact, I never knew you. Not too far from my apartment, but I just couldn't bring myself to cross its threshold. Besides, Mike's Clark Street location has a bit of curse upon it, having previously housed an international burger bar that quickly shuttered, and an off-kilter French-Thai failure. I'm banking on a Asian-Polish fusion spot taking over the lease next.

January 13, 2007

Say good-bye. These pots served me well. Very well. But now it is time to bid them adieu.

You ask - Why? They look perfectly serviceable to me!

I didn't want to show you this. I wanted you to remember them in their prime - or at least in the long shot above. Well, looks like you've forced me to bring out the close-ups.

A handle that has gone well beyond well-worn.

Royal blue enamel that has been burned away at the pot's ever-important edge - now searing a hole in the interior as well.

So you can see, I had no choice. It was their time. They lived full lives. They spent happy hours helping me prepare thyme-laced chicken soup, stewed meatballs in hearty tomato sauce, custard bases for homemade ice creams, risottos drizzled with truffle oil, and so much more.

And, I'm sure I would've shed a tear or two when I unceremoniously tossed them into the garbage, if it wasn't for the glistening new replacements I just purchased.

Dang. Ain't they purty?

Guess I'm gonna need to throw a dinner party soon in order to put these babies to the VittlesVamp test!

January 07, 2007

No, I'm not referring to foie gras, or truffles, or even cheese. Although, all wildly important.

I'm talking about friends. In my case, my girlfriends. The four ladies who know me better than I know myself - in good times and bad. My "crew." My "the Sex in the City gals have nothin' on us" pals.

Until Friday night I had no idea that I was missing them. I mean, I was actually SEEING them - but it was really in fits and starts, when we all were showing up with smiles on our faces instead of reality on our lips.

But suddenly, at Stacie's b-day celebration at Joe's Pub, bad days, crazy jobs, difficult men and maddening family all came to head in the form of furtive glances between me and my three gals.

Sadly, b-day and friendly furtive glances aside, Stacie had to skidaddle after the 7:30pm set.

It was up to Joy, Jenn and I to start speaking truths.

And everyone knows that truth is better when accompanied with spirits.

On to Temple Bar we marched. Ensconced in a quiet corner table, one round of cocktails and three bowls of addictive popcorn later, the three of us were letting loose talking about our frustrations - petty and not - and challenges -big and small. Another round of drinks were ordered, a few more bowls of popcorn downed. Analysis of our daily traumas continued.

Then it hit me: Our shoulders were much more relaxed then at the onset of the evening. Our smiles were more genuine. Our laughter more organic.

By the time we pulled ourselves away at 1am, I realized that we had chatted ourselves into a happy cluster. We were women - hear us roar.

Now, we all live in NYC, so there was no way this sisterhood exultation was going to last past 2am. But right then and there we were a club. The gals. Us. We three. The ladies.